


A Kingdom Burn

by pasdexcuses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: H/D Career Fair 2017, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-24 06:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12006987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/pseuds/pasdexcuses
Summary: After the war, when Draco finds himself facing a thirty-year sentence in Azkaban or becoming a spy for the Ministry, there isn’t really much of a choice.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[201](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LiaSm8GWFLsDD8KUOZmlTSHmhIMyFZzdqYNfB-25Khk/edit).
> 
> A massive thank you to smirkingcat and this_bloody_cat for the wonderful beta and cheerleading, couldn't have finished this without you! You guys are amazing and I’m ever so lucky to count on you!

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Lucius Malfoy was one of the first to be declared guilty by the Wizengamot after the war. He was convicted a full three months after the battle of Hogwarts, and sentenced to thirty years in Azkaban for war crimes and at least six other crimes against humanity. Although his family was terribly distraught by the Wizengamot’s decision, the sentence was widely accepted as a light one by almost everyone else in the magical community.

The Malfoys had their wizarding barrister, Mr. Fitzwilliam, to thank for this. And it was he who now sat across the Malfoys’ dining table, a sombre expression on his face.

Sliding a scroll of parchment across the table, he said, “As your wizarding barrister, I strongly advise you to take this deal.”

Draco turned his attention to his mother.

Narcissa Malfoy had dark bags under her eyes, made all the more evident by her extremely pale skin, which had turned a little grey over the past year. She herself had stood trial less than a month ago and had been acquitted, to the surprise of many. _Her_ saving grace had been a statement from none other than Harry Potter himself.

“You got Mother acquitted without cutting any deals,” Draco said, unrolling the scroll.

“Thanks to a testimony that proved Mrs. Malfoy’s final actions during the battle may have very well been what tipped the balance against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” Mr. Fitzwilliam answered. “So, unless you, young Mr. Malfoy, are hiding such an act under your sleeve, I very much doubt the Wizengamot will be as kind to you.”

“And if I don’t take this deal?” Draco asked.

“You are nineteen now and were eighteen when the events took place. Younger witches and wizards have been sentenced to Azkaban for crimes less severe.”

Narcissa drew a sharp breath. “Take the deal,” she said.

“But, Mother, this deal—” Draco began, but stopped at his mother’s expression.

“I will never sleep again knowing that my son, my _only son_ , is locked up in that dreadful place,” she said, shaking her head.

She had been to Azkaban twice to visit her husband. Once, when Draco was sixteen, and a second time, about two weeks ago. Draco had been at school for the first time. But he’d been on house arrest ever since the war had ended. There had been no escaping his mother’s reaction this time around.

Narcissa Malfoy had gone to visit her husband two weeks after being acquitted and had come back looking far worse than before. Her eyes had sunken even deeper into her thin face and she was much quieter than before. Except at night, when Draco could hear her crying herself to sleep. Seeing her husband in Azkaban had been the last straw for her already fragile spirit.

Draco turned his attention to the scroll.

“I’d be gone for years,” he said, reading the small print.

“Ten years,” Mr. Fitzwilliam confirmed. “Plus, training.”

“What if I fail training?”

“You’d go to trial, and then you’d likely be given a sentence similar to Mr. Malfoy’s.”

“But that wouldn’t be my fault!” Draco exclaimed. “What if I’m just terrible at this!”

“Participants in this program are being hand-picked by the Minister himself and a team of Aurors. They know very well what they are looking for. So much so that this deal came from them,” Mr. Fitzwilliam explained. “If you fail training, it will be assumed you have done so on purpose. I need hardly tell you we are not currently living in a time for second chances.”

“Take the deal, Draco,” Narcissa insisted. “Ten years of working for them, of being out and free, have to be better than thirty locked up in Azkaban!”

“I’d be a slave of the Ministry for ten years, I’d hardly call that being free, Mother.”

“The conditions of the deal are pretty strict,” Mr. Fitzwilliam admitted. “After all, they need guarantee that you’re not going to run off with all their secrets.”

He took a deep breath. “So, it’s either becoming a spy or Azkaban.”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco’s throat was dry as he said, “Do you have a quill?”

 

A month later found Draco in a semi-dark room. A single lamp in a corner lighted the space. Next to the lamp hung the portrait of a young woman with thick blond curls. Except for this piece of decoration, the walls were entirely black.

A hooded figure kept attacking Draco. The witch under the hood was strong and fast. Her attacks were so relentless, all he could do was block and defend himself.

No wands were allowed during his training, a fact that had taken some getting used to, especially when thus attacked. Draco kept involuntarily reaching for his old wand, which made the hooded witch smirk.

“Tut tut,” she said calmly, as though constantly coming at Draco was no effort to her at all. “Wands are a privilege few can afford.”

Then, she launched her body forward, arm drawing back as though she was about to swing her fist hard at Draco, who ducked in an attempt to avoid colliding with it. Too late did he realise she was feigning. A second later, she was kicking him hard in the stomach, making him stumble before finally falling flat on his back with the sheer strength of her blow.

With the breath knocked out of him, Draco lied unmoving on the floor. The witch walked towards him. Although her hood covered her face all the way down to her nose, the curve of her mouth was a clear enough sign of her disappointment. She towered over him, offering her hand. Tired, Draco didn’t think twice before taking it.

This was also a mistake. The witch had no sooner brought him to his feet when she was already twisting his arm behind his back. Another push and the side of his face was flat against the wall, right next to the portrait.

“And being naive,” the witch said in Draco’s ear, “is just bad practice.”

Letting go of him, she whipped out her wand. Draco turned, his back flat against the wall. But the witch wasn’t pointing at him. Instead, he was pointing a few inches to his left. With one twirl of her wrist, she vanished the portrait, making his stomach sink.

Of course, he thought, already dreading the question that was about to come.

The hooded witch smirked. “What colour were the woman’s earrings?” she asked coolly, as though she was asking a stranger about the weather.

Draco tried hard to picture the portrait. He remembered the woman’s face, her plump lips and brown eyes. He even remembered the purple scarf around her neck, but for the life of him, he could not recall the earrings she was wearing.

“Purple,” he answered.

“An educated guess,” the witch said. “You get a point for remembering her scarf.” She twirled her wrist again before finishing with, “But you’re still wrong.”

Launching herself at him, she forced Draco to spar with her again. He was tired and bruised, but she was stronger and faster than before. It took all his concentration to block her attacks as they moved about the room.

And then, she had her back to the portrait and he was standing right in front of it. He stopped for a second, staring. The witch in the portrait had no earrings at all.

Another kick, and Draco was down on the floor again.

“Don’t get distracted,” the hooded witch ordered.

 

The first rule of spy work was observation. His training had taught him that much. The second rule was to never trust anything or anyone. The third rule was to follow orders and complete missions without asking questions. Any information he absolutely needed to know was given to him. Anything he should know to make his life easier he could work out for himself. Everything else was more trouble than it was worth. 

Naturally, none of these rules were ever explicitly explained. Draco just worked them out by himself as he trained. His trainer —whom he had taken to just calling the Witch— was more into teaching through example and experience. He never would’ve thought he’d say this, but his training made him realise a little theory never did anyone any harm.

The sparring sessions —if you could call the Witch’s relentless attacks on him that— were the tip of the iceberg. A couple of months after he’d signed away his freedom to become a spy, Draco was sent on short, apparently random “missions” in the Muggle world. Befriend a barmaid until he could list her three most treasured possessions. Stalk a security guard until he could sneak a poisoned donut in to his diet. Steal from a bookshop. Plant devices to listen to the conversations between a couple of university students. All of which he had to do without a wand, as he had not yet been allowed one.

He was sent on missions like these all across England and Scotland. He always gave written reports on his findings to the Witch, who constantly handed these back with the instruction to “be more specific.” The latest report he handed in was a 30-inch scroll monstrosity that included a detailed description of a girl’s shoelaces and the colour of her bracelets.

“My, my,” the Witch said as she examined the report. “I may have taught you something in the end.”

Draco rolled his eyes at her before turning on the heel of his boots to leave.

Eight months into his training, the longest mission he’d had was the one where he collected tapes from the devices he’d planted months ago. He was instructed from the beginning not to listen to the recordings, an instruction he followed more out of general disinterest than out of any sense of loyalty or discipline. But, eventually, the day did come when even this mission was declared complete.

Ordered to remove all planted devices, collect all remaining tapes and hand over everything, Draco did just as he was instructed. As with all the missions that had come before, he expected to receive sardonic criticism on the details in his report before the Witch waved him away. This time, however, he was wrong.

Their meeting places were often abandoned buildings or public spaces. They even met once in a zoo, a time Draco remembered well as one of the monkeys had reached out of his cage and had almost stolen his precious report, much to the Witch’s amusement. This time, however, Draco found himself standing outside what was clearly a proper office.

A young woman dressed as a Muggle secretary opened the door and let him in. His months spent in the Muggle world had taught him what regular waiting rooms looked like, so he knew straight away he was standing in one.

A few moments later, a second door opened and another woman stepped out. She was wearing a white button-up shirt with long sleeves, a grey pencil skirt that reached just above her knees and a pair of pointed high heels. But her general appearance was not what gave Draco pause.

It was her voice as she spoke, “In my office, if you please.”

Draco stared at her for a moment. It was the Witch, finally out of her hood. He’d recognise that voice anywhere.

The woman raised an eyebrow at him, which prompted Draco to his feet and inside her office.

“So, this is what you look like,” he said, not able to contain himself.

“If you really think this is my true appearance,” the Witch began, taking a seat behind a large mahogany desk, “then you are as much of an imbecile as you were when we started.”

He rolled his eyes. “So, what’s the special occasion?”

“Special occasion?”

“It’s the first time we’re meeting anywhere that resembles a proper workplace.”

“Oh, you noticed?” the Witch asked sardonically.

“Perhaps I’m not as much of an imbecile as you thought,” he answered in an equal tone.

“Your report,” the Witch commanded, extending out her hand.

Draco handed it over. He watched as she read all seventeen scrolls of parchment, her face blank throughout.

Finally, she said, “Good.” Rolling up the scrolls, she set them aside before continuing, “And thus I declare this mission, and your training by extension, concluded.”

“ _What?_ ” _Just like that_ , he wanted to add.

The Witch made a nondescript noise. “Yes, the latest tapes you handed in were quite useful indeed.”

“That was a real mission?”

The Witch gave him a funny look. “They have all been real missions. No point in wasting your time or mine with useless information.”

Draco sat further back into his chair. “Even that time with the barmaid?” he blurted out.

“Ah, yes. If I remember correctly, a couple of her possessions have been switched for something a little more… useful.”

Draco opened and closed his mouth.

“Now, as I was saying,” the Witch’s voice almost sounded bored as she went on, “the Centre has come to the conclusion that your training has been completed. We still have a few matters to sort out before you are cleared to move on to the next stage of your assignment. But you should know that you are officially a certified spy.”

Sarcastically, he asked, “And will there be a diploma to come with that?”

“Hilarious,” the Witch deadpanned, opening a drawer and bringing out a long leather box and a piece of parchment. “I need hardly remind you of the conditions of your deal with the Ministry of Magic,” she said, placing both items on the desk. “Anything that can be constituted as a violation of the terms of said deal is cause for immediate incarceration.”

“I thought you said you needn’t remind me,” Draco replied, eyeing the box with apprehension.

She handed over the parchment first, which had scribbled on it a complicated code. “That contains all information you need to meet with your handler in two weeks’ time. You will have a week to prepare with them for your assignment.”

“And in the meantime?”

The Witch simply shrugged. “Up to you, Mr. Malfoy.” She then slid the box across the table. “But, you might find this useful.”

Draco took the box gingerly. He wouldn’t put it past the Witch to hand him something dangerous as part of his “training.” What he found inside was not what he’d been expecting at all. It was his old wand, hawthorn and unicorn hair still intact.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked in almost a whisper, taking the wand from its box.

“As I said, you have completed your training,” the Witch explained with an exaggerated air of infinite patience. “You will be needing your wand for your assignment.”

“You’ve been training me without magic,” Draco pointed out.

“So, you’d be forced to develop and use more skills,” the Witch drawled.

“And now?”

“And now you may go.”

Draco stared at her, confused by the finality of it all. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

 

He chose to spend most of his two weeks with his mother, touring the Scottish lake district. The night before they parted ways, she handed him a carefully wrapped package. The knife held inside was a work of art indeed. The hilt was pure emerald, the blade was silver, short and pointed. The blade, finely decorated with filigree gold, shone bright under the moonlight.

“Be safe,” Narcissa Malfoy told her son. “And take this to remember me by.”

Draco pocketed it, its weight heavy in his trousers.

They returned home just a day before the start of his assignment. The following morning, he was walking into an empty building, his every footstep echoing loudly in the vast silence of the early morning hours.

Out of the shadows, a short and stocky figure appeared. On instinct, Draco stepped back, wand pointed in its direction. Raising their hands to show they weren’t holding anything, the figure stepped out into the light.

It was a woman dressed in Muggle clothing. “Morning, Draco. My name is Claudia,” she said, extending out a hand, “and I’m your handler.”

She smiled warmly at him, which gave him a funny feeling of distrust.

“Morning,” he replied, wand still out.

“Are you ready to stop pointing at me?” she asked, her voice pleasant, as though she were speaking to a friend as opposed to threatened by a near-convict.

He lowered his wand reluctantly.

“That’s much better,” she said, pulling out a thick envelope from her jacket. “Here, the details of your assignment.”

He took the envelope wordlessly.

“Now, I’m sure you have many questions. But first, I’d like you to follow me, if you please.” She started to walk outside without turning to see if he followed. “I’d rather have you and your partner in the same room to explain the situation.”

It was far too early for anyone to be out and about on the streets, and Draco was eerily alert to all sounds around him. From birds chirping to leaves rustling to the clicking of Claudia’s heels, the way silence seemed to amplify these sounds was unsettling.

Finally, they reached a park where a single man could be spotted on a bench. He had no doubt this would be his partner throughout his assignment, so he tried to categorise as many details as he could from afar. A minute later, however, he realised he needn’t have bothered.

He didn’t need to observe the man to figure him out. After all, it appeared that his new partner was Harry bloody Potter.


	2. Part II

Harry and Draco take seats next to each other as Claudia serves them tea and biscuits. The living room might as well be an exact copy for Mrs. Figg’s. Except for the smell of cabbages.

“The other side is developing a weapon,” she says before taking a sip from her tea.

“They are always developing something,” Draco retorts, eyes fixed on her.

“Not like this one,” she elaborates, pulling out a tape from her pocket. “One of ours managed to get this before…” She stops herself, grimacing, which is all the explanation they need. “Well, his sacrifice was worth it for what’s on this tape.”

Harry takes the tape in his hand to examine it. “Who’s in it?”

“A Ms. Aigner, the Head of the Department of Mysteries, her aides and an unidentified man.”

“And what’s so special about it this time?”

“The man is presenting a rather well-crafted plan, which includes the use of ‘the weapon.’ From what we can gather it’s some sort of airborne threat. Could wipe thousands within the minute and even more if given a couple of hours, according to what is said here.”

“Right,” Draco says. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it a similar plan, a couple of years ago, that nearly got the pair of us killed? And, unless my memory is failing me terribly today, there wasn’t much to it.”

“Indeed,” Claudia agrees calmly. “But this time—”

“It’s just another rumour to draw us out.”

She smiles thinly at him. “Why don’t you have a listen and tell me what you think?”

“I don’t need to, you spineless—”

“We will,” Harry interrupts, pocketing the tape. “Was there anything else?”

“The Centre understands the risks of… engaging in such a mission again, so they are proposing a different approach.”

“Which would be?”

Bringing out a brown envelope, Claudia pushes it across the table. “Here’s information on Ms. Aigner’s lovers, servants and cooks. Your mission will be to ensure one of them plants a bug in her office.”

This time, it’s Draco who takes the envelope. “That is a rather smarter course of action.”

“Glad to find my plan approved,” she replies, smirking. “So?”

“We’ll get it done.”

 

“I don’t like her,” Draco says as he parks their car in their driveway.

“You hardly like _me_ ,” Harry replies.

“I tolerate you.”

“My point exactly,” he says, stepping out.

It’s Monday evening, which means soon Mrs. Brenner will walk by with her dog and stop on their driveway to make small talk. Harry will offer her some tea, which she will politely decline —“Mr. Brenner is waiting for me back home, dear, you know how he gets.” Draco will roll his eyes behind his back and remind Harry that they have to stop going grocery shopping on Mondays.

Opening the trunk, Harry takes the first bags and carries them inside. He finds Draco in the kitchen, shelves opened as he meticulously arranges assortments of teas and herbs next to the spices they bought two Sundays ago in the market.

“You aren’t hiding, are you?” he teases.

“I’m organising,” Draco replies. “Though I understand your confusion, seeing how you have never done so.”

“I find that offensive.”

“I find the daily occurrence of your socks on our bathroom floor offensive.”

“Well,” Harry says, leaving the bags on the counter. “I’ll be outside, being a normal neighbour if you need me.”

They catch each other’s eye, mirroring smirks on their faces before he goes out to say hi to Mrs. Brenner.

 

Later, they have the contents of the brown envelope strewn all over their bed. The Head of the Department of Mysteries, as it turns out, has a rather colourful selection of lovers. Handsome faces with twinkling eyes are staring at them from her bed. And then there’s the staff. Polished uniforms and clean haircuts.

“This one,” Draco says, pointing at one of the cooks.

“Mrs. Schwartz,” Harry says, taking the cook’s picture and file to examine them closer. “Why?”

“Single mother, one kid. Should be easy to persuade.”

He turns to Draco. “You aren’t saying that we—”

“I’m saying she’s vulnerable.”

“I don’t know… She goes to Church.”

“Who do you suggest, then?”

“Him, Mr. Awad,” Harry says, pointing at a Middle Eastern man. “Looks high maintenance.”

“Yes, which does beg the question, how would you plan to get to him?”

“I have my ways.”

“Fine,” Draco says. “You go sleep with the model, and I’ll go convince the single mother.”

“Hilarious.”

 

A month later, Harry finds himself walking down a busy street downtown.

He smirks to himself as he enters a high-end bar, adjusting his cuffs. Draco may have been using some sarcasm, but he wasn’t entirely off the mark. He locates Mr. Awad easily, his white teeth glinting in the dim light as he drinks his martini.

Making sure he’s playing the part as he flirts shamelessly with the bartender, Harry takes a seat at the bar and orders his first whiskey of the night.

It’s half an hour before he starts throwing furtive looks over his shoulder, and a full hour before the first message arrives.

“The gentleman over there sends his compliments,” the waiter says, handing Harry yet another whiskey and pointing at Mr. Awad.

“How very kind,” he replies, tipping his glass in the right direction.

He glances at his watch. Half an hour more should do it. He drinks and smiles, drinks and smiles. Not too obvious but not too shy. A careful balance he’s found after years of doing this.

Then the phone rings, and the bartender is walking over to him, phone in hand.

“Excuse me, are you Mr. Black?”

He doesn’t think it a coincidence that the bartender is looking for a man named after he and Draco’s code name.

“Yes,” Harry says automatically, taking the phone. “Darling?”

“Darling,” comes Draco’s voice on the other end of the line, confirming Harry’s initial thoughts. “So, glad I got a hold of you.”

“Need me to pick you up?” he asks, gesturing for his bill and taking a few bank notes from his wallet.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Draco replies. “I assume you know where I am?”

“Of course.”

 

It takes Harry twenty minutes to get on the right tram and walk the rest of the way to Mrs. Schwartz’s. Making sure the coast is clear, he approaches her door, wand in hand. He knocks once, twice.

“It’s me,” he says.

Hearing steps, he flattens his back against the wall, ready to act in case someone unexpected answers the door.

The steps pause before a voice comes through the door. “Darling?” Draco asks.

“Darling,” Harry retorts.

Their two-step confirmation out of the way, Draco opens the door to let him in. Harry blinks for a moment at the sight of his partner in an aggressively pink skirt, matching heels and a white blouse. Though he’s still wearing earrings, Harry can tell this was not the original full look.

“Polyjuice started wearing off about half an hour ago, after I ran into an unexpected problem,” Draco explains, leading them to the living room.

“What the—” Harry starts at the sight of two grown men and a small woman handcuffed to a large table.

“I Obliviated the pair of them, after they tried to get a jump on me. You see, dear Mrs. Schwartz here wasn’t too trusting after all.”

“What happened?”

“She found the hidden bug I had her plant while coming back for Ms. Aigner’s empty plates and hired these two goons to protect her. She’s a little too perceptive, this one.”

“When did she plant the bug?”

“This morning, I Obliviated her over lunch, she found the bug early in the afternoon.”

“I wasn’t aware you were this far along,” Harry says.

“Well, I didn’t want to spoil your fun. Though, in the end, it looks like I had to.”

“How did you find me?”

Smirking, Draco replies, “I have my ways.”

Harry raises a quizzical brow at him.

“Fine,” he says, rolling his eyes as though Harry is spoiling all the fun for him. “That was the fourth bar I tried. Would’ve given up by the fifth, so lucky me.”

Somehow, Harry finds that hard to believe. But getting the right answer is not going to help them out with the situation at hand.

“What’s the plan?” he asks, cataloguing everything in the room. 

“I need help carrying these two,” Draco replies, pointing at the men. “And she is going to need a stronger memory charm.”

“Right. Well, Mrs. Schwartz, looks like you’re going first.”

“Oh,” Draco says with an air of _one more thing_ , “her son’s about to arrive.”

Harry rolls his eyes in exasperation but wastes no more time in getting to work. While wiping memories is a task to be carried out with care, memory modification is much more experimental. One wrong twist and he could end up accidentally convincing Mrs. Schwartz she’s really an elephant that’s just escaped the zoo. It’s also preferable to make the modification a work of two.

Taking a deep breath, Harry takes out his wand and gives it two smooth twirls at Mrs. Schwartz exposed forehead. Her head tilts back softly, and just as easily, a string of silvery cloud flows out of her skin before dissolving into nothingness.

Motioning Draco to come over, Harry points his wand at him, repeating the process. Except this time, before Draco’s silvery cloud can dissipate, he points it at Mrs. Schwartz, pushing it past her skin.

“Thank you,” Draco says, moving to crouch down in front of the woman. “Who are you?” he asks her.

“Katerina Schwartz.”

“What is your profession?”

“I’m a cook.”

“Who do you work for?”

“The Head of the Department of Mysteries.”

“And what did you do today?”

“I went to work and left just after five.”

“Anything unusual?”

“No.”

“And after work?”

“I went shopping for my son’s birthday present.”

“And what did you get him?”

“The store didn’t have what I was looking for.”

“Excellent!” Turning to Harry, Draco says, “We should probably get out. And take those two goons.”

Nodding, Harry replies, “I’ll take the goons, you clean up here.”

 

They release the goons a few blocks away from Mrs. Schwartz’ apartment. They are still blankly staring, which Harry supposes is the effect of the stronger memory charms he just performed on them. They should be fine, in time.

“My knight in shining armour,” Draco says as Harry lays down the second man.

But Harry can’t even muster half a smile, now that they are out of any immediate danger. “Why didn’t you tell me you were this far along with Mrs. Schwartz?” he asks.

“I wasn’t. I… had to rush things today.”

“Why?”

Draco shrugs. “I found out she’s leaving her job. Too much pressure.”

“And what, you couldn’t have waited an extra day?”

“She’s leaving tomorrow. I didn’t want to waste all my hard work.”

“Really?” Harry asks. “Because that sure didn’t seem like a home ready for moving day.”

Another shrug. “Who are you to judge, Mr. My-Socks-Belong-Anywhere-But-In-Drawers?”

Harry fixes his eyes on Draco, taking one good look at him and at the way he has his hands in his pockets, his head tilted just slightly.

It’s not the first time he feels like Draco is leaving out a couple details. And it probably won’t be the last.

 

The bug records everything onto a short-range recorder that they’ve left in the trunk of a parked car. Changing the tapes is an inconvenience they put themselves through every other week.

There’s a lot of sex in the tapes —which never fails to amuse Draco— and little actual conversation on plans —which never fails to annoy him. They catch names, do their research, pass along information to the Centre, rinse and repeat.

They have missions in between. Or, Harry has missions. As of late, Draco has been spending most of his time down in their basement, brewing made-up potions based on the few notes they are able to take from the tapes. 

Harry finds himself scrunching up his nose more often than not whenever he walks by the basement door. He supposes he should be glad that winter is just around the corner —the foul smell would be unbearable in the summer.

 

November quickly becomes December, which never fails to make Harry rather wistful. It doesn’t help that the past couple of months have been slow. Missions are either being wrapped up or so well into their run that they practically work themselves out. Even Draco has given up on brewing counter potions for “the weapon,” and has instead taken semi-permanent residence on their couch.

“We know nothing about this so-called weapon,” he says after Harry asks him about it one day. Then, with an air of tragedy, he adds, “Plus, I’ll have no clothes if I continue to give these experimental brews a chance. I already had to burn half of what I owned just to get rid of the smell.”

Harry snorts, unable to deny the fact that he, too, is grateful for the fact that their house no longer smells of rotten eggs.

“What did Claudia say when you gave her the news of your early retirement as a potion-maker?” he asks, his eyes fixed on Draco.

There’s a pause before Draco answers, “She was absolutely fine with it.”

Harry thinks about calling him out on his lie. But it’s such an obvious one, that he figures the reason why Draco won’t tell him what really happened is because nothing unexpected really did. Claudia probably protested, Draco probably mocked her and the Centre’s abilities for reasonable plan-development. In the end, Claudia probably gave the whole thing up as a lost cause. 

He walks into the kitchen, which is in its usual pristine state. There are never any clanking pots or dirty dishes. Never anything but shining surfaces and the faint smell of cleaning potion. He remembers the Weasleys’ kitchen during Christmas time. The perpetual smell of warm food, hot chocolate and treacle tart. 

It’s not just that he misses his friends and Christmas at the Weasleys’. It’s also the fact that every December marks yet another year on this assignment. The word _anniversary_ is on the tip of his tongue.

But anniversary could never be the right word for them. Not when neither of them _chose_ each other.

 

They discussed separate bedrooms when they got the house. They had an apartment before that, where the problem wasn’t what to do with the many rooms but rather how not to kill each other with so little space. But two years in, the Centre gave them the house.

The thing about houses, especially those in the suburbs, is that they are meant for more than two. Sure, the space has come in awfully handy, particularly the basement, which now could very well pass as a Hogwarts dungeon. Having a kitchen, dining room and living room is also a nice change of pace. It gives them room to be.

The real problem is upstairs, where there is one master bedroom and two smaller ones. The house could not have screamed the word “family” more if it had tried. In the end, they turned one of the smaller rooms into an office of sorts and decided to leave the second one as a “guest bedroom,” in case any nosy neighbour ever came poking around.

At first, however, they thought about turning the master bedroom into an office while each kept one of the smaller rooms. By then, they had already been sleeping in the same bed for two years, almost every night. 

Harry wasn’t sick of it, per se. He just knew something had to change. Something had to, because otherwise, he would drive himself mad. Mad with longing for something he couldn’t have.

Then Draco came home one day, blood spluttered over half of his face. He was shaking from head to toe, hands unsteady as he rinsed off the blood on his knife. He was quiet throughout, very quiet, and Harry didn’t dare ask. He could get the gist of the situation without doing so, and if Draco wanted him to know anything else, he’d let him know.

But Draco didn’t speak when he finished cleaning up his face. He didn’t speak as he changed out of his bloodied clothes.

Instead, he turned to Harry, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kissed him. He kissed him like he never had before. Not for a show, not as distraction, not to serve a purpose other than them in the there-and-then.

Together, they reasoned that keeping the master bedroom would be best in case anyone came snooping around. But deep down, Harry thought things between them could be like that one night.

 

There’s a name in the tape that comes up twice in the right context, so in January the Centre tells them to look into that. It takes them weeks to figure out who they are going to work to get close to the name and how.

“Her,” Draco says, pointing at one of the two secretaries they have settled on as their top choices.

Harry picks up her file. “Georgia Wagner… I agree.”

“So, it’s settled, I’ll handle her.”

“No,” Harry says, staring at her picture. There’s something about her face. Something like she knows more than she should. “I think you should skip this one out.”

 

Harry always thought it was a funny thing to keep Departments spread out across the city instead of in a single building like they are back home. It implies more hiding from the Muggles, more carefully designed barriers and clever ways to discourage them from getting too close. Then again, the people over here do have more flare for cunning disguises.

It isn’t a secret, not for anyone in the magical community, where the various departments are. But more than one witch or wizard has trouble on a daily basis just finding the places. And the Department of Mysteries might well be the best hidden of all.

Right in the corner of one of the busiest streets in the city, there is a rather popular palace-turned-museum. On a daily basis, the palace-turned-museum is flooded with scholars and students and tourists from all over. And mixed in with the crowd of Muggles are the witches and wizards making their way to their job on the third floor, fourth door to the right, painting Number 14.

That is, quite literally, the name of the painting. Number 14 of _The Castle_ , a permanent exhibit. Harry himself has been up there a few times, though he’s never quite managed to get inside the Department of Mysteries. Draco managed it only once, by accident, which is how they know painting Number 14 is the right one. Because, beside their titles, all twenty frames in the exhibit hold identical canvases. And while the exhibit itself is permanent, the location of each frame is not.

The pamphlet you get upon paying the museum fee explains this is done to keep the spirit the artist attempted to capture when painting twenty canvases of the same castle, at the same time of night: to capture it’s _mysterious_ mood. He keeps a copy of the pamphlet with his other books for his own amusement.

Right now, however, Harry is not on the third floor, fourth door to the right, painting Number 14. Instead, he has taken a seat by the window of a small café just across the palace-turned-museum. He’s there every day, from opening to closing time. But he doesn’t take notes or pictures or any other mementos by which to remember a moment. He’s there every day, from opening to closing time, always as someone else.

For a month, he hasn’t left the one mile radius around the palace-turned-museum other than to go home and to see Claudia. Last week, he sat by on the second floor of the library next door. The week before that, he mixed in with the window-cleaning staff. And the week before that, he was here at night, dressed in black.

Never as himself, never doing anything other than reading a book or the paper or simply twirling a golden ring on his finger. But always taking a break to stare outside the glass, out onto the street. Twice a day, always at the same time. This is his job: to register the little things. His job is to make a mountain of minuscule things that he piles, one on top of each other, little by little, every day.

It’s his job to know that Miss Wagner buys coffee in the mornings, just before work. It’s his job to know her order, down to the last gram of sugar she likes with her latte. It’s his job to know she is familiar with the Muggle staff at the front desk; it’s his job to know she knows all guards by name. It’s his job to know she came down with a cold two weeks ago; it’s his job to know no one was there for her. It’s his job to know that she sometimes looks over her shoulder when she thinks no one else is watching; it’s his job to know she has secrets. It’s his job to know she wants to share them.

So, when she walks into the café, looking around, it’s Harry’s job to know she’s after something.

He isn’t at all surprised when she sits across his table, points at the golden ring on his hand and declares, “I know who you are.”

“Excuse me?” he asks. “Do we know each other?”

“In manner of speaking,” she replies, shrugging off her coat. “You know who I am, and I know who you are. Or,” she says, “I know who you work for.”

“I’m sorry, but you must have the wrong—”

“I noticed you tailing me three days ago,” she continues. “I imagine you have been doing so for a little longer than that?”

At this, Harry allows himself a smile, tapping the heavy ring against the table. “Again, I think you have the wrong guy, Miss…?”

She fixes her eyes on the ring for a second before turning to fix her stare at him. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“Perhaps you’ve been reading too many novels.”

Georgia Wagner presses her lips into a thin line before she speaks, “Someone somewhere is going to get a lot of people killed,” she says.

“Someone somewhere is always getting people killed.”

“Not like this. This is…” She stops herself, looking over her shoulder before leaning in. Her voice is barely above a whisper when she says, “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s monstrous what they are doing. And if it works…”

Harry raises his eyebrows at her pause.

She shakes her head. “This is going to get me killed,” she mutters under her breath as she takes her coat and stands. “Here,” she says, handing over a piece of parchment. “Meet me there if you’re interested.”

 

Two hours later, Harry is sitting alone in Claudia’s living room.

“I let her come to me, like we discussed,” he says, pouring milk into his tea.

“And she wasn’t suspicious?”

“I was subtle,” Harry says, taking off the golden ring and placing it on the table. “I made sure she wouldn’t pick up on me tailing her too soon.”

“And the meeting?” Claudia asks, pocketing the ring.

“Next Wednesday, 10 am, our usual park.”

“The code?”

Harry hands her a piece of parchment. “It was easy.”

She scans it once. “So, she hasn’t been trained,” she concludes, just like he had an hour and a half ago.

“Not properly.”

She takes a moment to stare at the piece of parchment before giving it back to Harry. “Or perhaps not at all. What is your assessment?”

“I think she has intel we could use.”

“Good. The Centre will keep an eye on this. But for now, your orders are to take the meeting.”

“Understood.”

With that, Harry takes a last sip from his cup before pushing back his chair. He’s grabbed his coat and is all the way to the door, hand on the handle when Claudia calls him back.

“How’s Draco doing?” she asks.

Harry doesn’t turn around, though he lets go of the handle. “Good.”

“He doesn’t seem off to you?” she presses. “Waning in his interest for the cause?”

“No,” he replies. Then, turning to face her, “Is this why you wanted to meet me alone?”

“I always like to meet my charges individually,” she answers. “Every now and again. Helps us build a stronger bond, don’t you think?”

His breathing is even, he makes sure of it, when he answers, “We’re fine, Draco and I.”

Claudia’s smile reminds him of a toad. Or at the very least, a very toad-like face. “I’m glad to hear that, Harry.”

 

“This is _amateur work_ ,” Draco says, lighting the piece of parchment on fire with the tip of his wand.

Harry is almost amused by how much disdain he’s able to put in just two words. “Does it bother you?”

“It clearly doesn’t bother _you_.”

“That wasn’t my question,” he says.

Draco folds his arms across his chest. “What did Claudia say?”

“She told me to take the meeting.”

“Of course, she did, the old bat.” Then, fixing his eyes on Harry, “Don’t go.”

“Are you worrying about me now?” he teases, though Draco’s face remains impassive.

“You haven’t done anything this stupid in a while,” comes his answer.

 

They don’t really talk about it until Tuesday evening after dinner. And Harry can tell Draco has been going over the conversation when he stops drying dishes to give him a meaningful look.

“Something feels wrong about this,” he says. “It’s a trap waiting to happen.”

“The Centre—”

“The Centre have sent us into the wolf’s den more than once before.”

He’s probably right. Still. “Something this big,” he replies, taking one of the dishes, “is worth the risk.”

“It’s the fourth time in under ten months,” Draco says.

“What?”

“It’s the fourth preposterous mission they are sending you out to do in under ten months. And, unless you say something, they’ll keep doing it until you don’t come back.”

Harry tilts his head, considering him. He hadn’t been counting, though he’s not surprised to find that Draco has been doing so. A part of him, a very selfish part of him, wants to tease him and point out that his protest could almost be misconstrued for legitimate worry. But he knows Draco well enough to be aware that this will probably only get him a knife thrown at his own face along with some snide remark on who’s worried about whom _now_.

In the end, he settles for pointing out the obvious, “The Centre isn’t trying to get us killed.”

He barely catches Draco muttering under his breath something that sounds an awful lot like, “You’d be surprised.”

Deciding to drop the argument entirely, he glances down at the sink, where Draco is currently making a poor job out of washing their dishes. Hip-checking him to the side, Harry opens the tap and rinses the offending scraps of food.

“Really?” Harry asks, showing Draco a fork half-covered in sauce that had been previously dumped in the “clean” pile.

Draco rolls his eyes and moves to take out his wand. He stops when Harry shoots him a glare that he hopes says _We have Muggle neighbours_.

“Fine,” Draco says, leaving his wand in his pocket. “Have it your way.”

Harry smiles. “You mean the cleaning or—”

“The cleaning.”

Draco’s mouth is a thin, displeased line. Harry considers him in his neatly pressed shirt and perfectly styled hair before turning to the dismissed pile of dishes. Understanding dawns on him in an unpleasant sort of way. He thinks, if the situation were reversed, he wouldn’t fancy Draco going off to face what he considered to be near-certain death. If nothing else, they have been partners for a long time.

“Listen,” he starts, reaching out for Draco’s hand and changing his mind halfway there. That is who they are. “If this Wagner has something, anything, it has to be huge.”

“But she doesn’t.”

“If she does, this could change everything. Isn’t that what we’re here for? To prevent another war?”

For the first time since they started this conversation, Draco looks away. Harry follows his eyes, which are fixed on Mrs. Brenner walking her dog outside their window. They’re in the middle of a hot summer, and, although it’s late, the sky is only just turning orange. Mrs. Brenner sees them and waves. It’s easy, almost natural, to reach behind Draco and drape an arm around his waist before waving.

Mrs. Brenner is safely out of their sight when Draco turns in his arms and says, “Don’t do this.”

Their faces are so close, all Harry would have to do is lean over for their lips to touch. He can’t remember how long it’s been. A couple of years ago, he thinks, over a lonely Christmas when they were both too drunk to mind.

Unconsciously, he licks his lips. “We were given a mission,” he says.

“We were given a stupid reckless mission.”

“Still a mission.”

“Fine,” Draco says, pulling away from Harry. “Go get yourself killed.”

Harry catches his hand before he gets a chance to storm off.

“Thanks for dinner.”

Draco merely huffs. Harry reels him in and smiles when he follows with no resistance.

“I’ll be okay,” he promises.

Draco gives him a hard look before saying, “For a spy, you’ve always been an appalling liar.”

This time, when Draco pulls away, Harry doesn’t try to hold him back.

 

That night, Harry lies on their bed wide awake. Although he is dead set of following through with this mission, he can’t help but agree with Draco: something is off. They’ve been doing this for years, and it’s almost second nature to notice when something is wrong. And there’s definitely something amiss, though neither can put his finger on what it is.

He turns, facing Draco’s naked back. A part of him wants to reach out and touch the pale skin. The part of him that knows better makes him clench his hand into a fist before his fingers reach their target.

He sighs. The last time Draco kissed him, he’d been so drunk that Harry still isn’t sure he remembers it. Harry fell asleep with his arms wrapped around Draco. He woke up alone, though. And when he tried to touch Draco over breakfast, Draco flinched away.

“Don’t,” he said.

That had been that. For years, they had danced around each other. A perverse game of cat and mouse that started and ended only to start all over again. But that was the last straw for Harry. He promised himself to not try again, to never reach again. He was tired and done with the whole mess.

And Draco must have felt the same way. He never reached for Harry again, not like that and not without a purpose. Never without a witness, never without a clear goal in sight.

Harry turns around again, facing the window. He tries to picture the park where the meeting with Georgia Wagner will take place the following day. He’s been there countless times, so he goes over the streets, the shops, all possible escape routes in case the mission goes south, which he has a feeling it will.

Still, the cause is worth it. The cause is worth risking his life ten times over. It’s even worth dying for, if it means there will be no more Lord Voldemorts.

 

Harry wakes up early to make pancakes. He stacks three on a plate and just one on another. When Draco comes down, he pretends he’s already eaten his first two.

They eat their breakfast in silence, until Draco puts his fork down. “The Centre called while you showered,” he says.

“Oh?”

“The tapes from Ms. Aigner’s need changing.”

“They’re not due yet.”

“Apparently, they are,” Draco explains. “A glitch or something.”

“What?”

Draco shrugs. “Someone crashed the car where we’re hiding the tapes last night. That must have done it.”

“Right. So, you’ll go?”

“Yes. I’ll be at the safe house before lunch.”

Harry checks his watch. “I should be done with Wagner by then.”

A part of him is expecting Draco to make some sort of snide remark. But he doesn’t. Instead, he takes another sip of his tea before clearing both his and Harry’s plates.

“When are you leaving?” Harry asks.

“Soon.”

 

The meeting with Georgia Wagner is at 10 am, when the park is at its busiest. At 9:30, he rounds the corner, walking over to an empty bench. As planned, he brings out a tattered book and sits to wait.

At 9:41, a woman wearing a scarf over her head sits next to him.

“We’re aborting this mission,” she says in a whisper, her eyes firmly on the dog running after his master.

Harry opens his mouth but Claudia beats him to it, “The Centre has reasons to believe this is a trap,” she explains. “Come with me.”

Wordlessly, he checks his watch before following her. 9:43.

They leave the park altogether and end up walking a couple of blocks down before Claudia walks into a dingy-looking diner. She leads them to a table in a corner, takes a seat and motions him to do the same.

“What happened?” Harry asks.

Claudia shakes her head. “The Centre just received information,” she says by way of an explanation. “I came as soon as I heard. This is a trap.”

“We’ve known that’s a possibility, but we can’t be sure, we can’t—”

“The Centre received reliable information. A trap was set.”

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity,” he insists, his voice barely above a whisper. “If Wagner’s intel turns out to be real—”

“We can’t risk you like this. We’re pulling the mission.”

Harry checks his watch. 9:52. “There’s still time to go back, I can still meet with her.”

“No,” Claudia says. “It’s too risky.”

“We’ll never get another chance at something this big. Wagner says she’s got the blueprints for the weapon the other side is developing. I have to meet with her.”

“Harry, I can’t let you go.”

“Then say I just wouldn’t listen,” Harry says, standing up.

“ _Harry_.”

9:57.

“I’m going.”

His heart pounds in his chest as he makes his way back. He mentally registers every person that passes him by. He registers their movements and watches out for anyone reaching into their pockets. His heart pounds faster, faster. Half-convinced he’s going down, he keeps a firm grip on his wand inside his pocket. His heart races so much it hurts. He hopes they can bring his body back, if it comes to that.

And then he spots a woman reading a book on the bench he’d just left. His racing heart comes to a sudden stop, like a racing broom coming to a screeching halt. His feet move on their own, carrying him to the bench.

His mouth is dry when he asks, “Georgia?”

The woman nods, moving over to let Harry take a seat next to her. “You’re late.”

“Minor complication,” he lies.

He doesn’t look at Georgia Wagner but at the trees and their thick leaves. An ideal hiding place, he thinks belatedly.

“You’re alone?”

“Yes,” he lies again, knowing Claudia is probably cursing him under her breath as she spots him from somewhere.

“Don’t lie to me again,” Wagner says. “I saw your spotter earlier.”

Harry gulps, his eyes move fast, trying to take in everything around him without giving himself away.

“This isn’t a trap,” Wagner says, reaching inside her pocket.

Harry tenses. Hand still on the wand in his pocket, he makes sure to keep it pointed in Wagner’s direction. He waits.

Then Wagner hands over a folded piece of parchment. “Take it.”

Grabbing it, Harry opens it and scans it quickly. His breath catches as what’s on the parchment starts to sink in. A weapon, a gas of some sort, all outlined there. He stares around, waiting for the other side to come jumping at him.

“I told you,” Wagner says. “This isn’t a trap.”

And Harry, knowing this would be when the other side would make a grab for him, breathes. “Merlin,” he says under his breath, looking down at the parchment again. “This will change everything.”

“I know,” Wagner replies. “I’m not even sure why I’m giving this to you.”

“You’re doing the right thing.”

“Am I?” Wagner turns her face to the bright blue sky.

“Yes, you are,” Harry repeats, a little more firmly this time.

She sighs. “Who really knows?”

“Trust me.”

At this, she snorts. “Trust you?” she asks. “What a ridiculous thing to ask.”

“It’s for the right cause.”

When Georgia Wagner turns to stare straight at Harry, there’s a strange glint in her eyes. She points an accusatory finger at the parchment in his hand. “Do you even know what your government wants that for?”

“To prevent another war,” he answers automatically.

Wagner narrows her eyes at him, as though she’s trying very hard to figure him out. And he gets an odd, dreadful feeling as she opens her mouth. But before she can get the words out, there’s Claudia, running towards them.

He bolts upright, searching for movement in the trees, looking for signs in the passers-by. He turns to Wagner in disbelief, but Wagner is doing exactly the same things as he is.

“Were you followed?” Wagner asks just as Claudia reaches them.

“We have to leave, I just saw the signal. It’s a trap!” Claudia all but yells as she tugs at Harry’s arm.

“It isn’t!” Wagner says. “Show her. Go on, show her the parchment.”

Harry hands over the parchment.

“Merlin’s beard,” Claudia whispers.

“This isn’t a trap,” Wagner repeats.

“But…”

“I don’t think she’s lying,” Harry says.

“But I just saw the signal. There’s a trap. The Centre has confirmed it, I’m positive.”

“Well, this isn’t it.” 

“But if this isn’t it…” Claudia starts. Harry can tell the moment the truth dawns on her. Her face blanches, her eyes huge. “Draco,” she whispers.

A second later, Claudia is calling after him, calling him back. But Harry is already running in the opposite direction.

 

Later, he will have trouble recalling the events that followed. It all happens so fast. One minute, he’s standing in a park. The next, he’s running to the nearest dark corner, heart in his throat.

With a loud ‘crack,’ he Disapparates. A fury of colours flash before his eyes as he grips his wand tightly, ready to fight as soon as he Apparates to the other side of the city.

Another ‘crack’ and his feet are landing on an empty street. He spots Draco in the distance, disguised as an old man, just as curses come flying at him. He blocks and deflects them, running as fast as his legs will carry him. He’s shouting, too, shouting for Draco to duck, take cover.

A curse flies right over him, singing hairs off his head. He throws a curse over his shoulder, not even bothering to look back. All he knows is he has to get to Draco. Curses continue flying at him from everywhere, some bouncing off the shield he just cast, some missing him by an inch. One of them hits him on the shoulder, dislocating it and making his left arm go limp. But Harry keeps on, running for it as though there’s nothing else to do.

And then, miraculously, he reaches the car behind which Draco ducked half a minute ago. Hunching down to avoid another curse, he searches Draco’s face for something, anything. But then his knee gives out, and he has to screw his eyes shut to avoid crying out loud. He was hit there, and didn’t even realise it.

Draco shoots a curse at the wizards and witches after them, and hits one of them.

“You’re hit,” he says, giving Harry an appraising look.

“It’s nothing.”

Another curse shoots from Draco’s wand.

“Come on, we have to get out of here,” Draco says, flinging Harry’s good arm around his neck.

The pain in Harry’s knee is so terrible that this, compounded with his dislocated shoulder, make him precious little more than dead weight on Draco. But Draco holds fast onto him, heaving both their bodies into a standing position to Disapparate.

It takes a couple of seconds at most. One second to stand up, another for Draco to manage both their weights before ‘crack’!

He feels something like an explosion hitting them, just as they are Disapparating. But they are already gone, another whirlwind of images flashing before his eyes. Draco manages to Apparate them a mere block from their safe house.

“Bloody hell,” Harry says, leaning against a brick wall. They made it, he thinks. They— “Draco!”

He tries reaching out, but he’s too weak and slow to prevent Draco from hitting the ground, a wet, red patch blossoming from his shirt.

“Draco!” Harry whispers, now on the floor, too.

Tearing open Draco’s shirt, he tries to locate where the wound is. But there is no torn flesh, there’s just blood, thick and coppery against Draco’s skin. He wipes it with his wand, but it just keeps coming, too fast, too thick to let him see properly.

“Hold on,” he says.

It takes him a minute or two, but he manages to get the bleeding under control. Although not soon enough. All the blood loss has left Draco limp, his skin grey. He needs to get him to a healer, quick.

So, pointing his wand at his own knee, Harry attempts to patch himself up. Fresh pain blossoms from his wound but he has no time to dwell on it. Taking a deep breath, he points his wand to his dislocated shoulder next. This one, he knows, will hurt more than even the curse that hit him.

The joint pops back into its socket with a nasty ‘pop’, and the pain is almost too much. He feels bile burning his throat, and it takes everything he’s got not to be sick all over Draco’s body.

He takes one look at Draco, who has already turned from his disguise as an old man back to his normal-looking self. Harry’s own disguise must have worn off, too. Casting a disillusionment charm over the both of them is the easiest way to keep them from prying eyes.

Too weak to perform more magic, Harry has to drag Draco’s body across the street, his shoes scraping the hot pavement as they make their slow way to the safe house.

He manages to get them both inside, his vision blurring. He can feel himself slipping out of consciousness, can feel his grip on Draco slackening as the darkness of the safe house shields them from the glaring sun. He hears footsteps, then yell for help before everything goes completely dark.

 

He’s in and out of consciousness, catching glimpses here and there. In between, his own memories swim before him like a poorly edited film of all the things he’s done: his first day at Hogwarts; his defeat of Lord Voldemort; his first Quidditch match; his last butterbeer; his first day in this city; his first mission, and Draco. Draco, a constant through it all. Draco at Madam Malkin’s and the Hogwarts Express. Draco at Malfoy Manor. Draco, robes singed after the war.

Draco, cold as stone and half his face covered in blood. Draco, his hands trembling as he unbuttoned Harry’s shirt.

“What happened?” Harry asked running his thumb over Draco’s lip.

But Draco pulled him closer instead. So, close his lips brushed Harry’s when he spoke for the first time that night. “Nothing,” he said. Then, hoarser still, “Kiss me.”

They were so close, he could feel both their hearts thumping. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that, couldn’t remember the last time that a couple of words made everything around him disappear. And it was just them and their hands on each other’s skin, tracing each other’s scars, pressing hard and harder still.

He kissed Draco all over, undressing him before each touch of his lips. He held him until he was warm and soft under his touch.

“Draco,” he murmured against his lips. “I—”

“Don’t.” Draco shook his head. “Whatever it is, don’t. Just…” he raked a hand through Harry’s hair, pulling him down, “be here with me.”

 

When he finally snaps awake, the smell of antiseptic potion fills the room. In the far corner, there’s a table surrounded by three people in green and plastic curtains that makes it hard to see.

His feet move on their own, quiet with these many years of practise. The smell is stronger as he moves forward, the clinking and stoppering of small bottles the only sound in the room.

“Harry,” someone says, touching his elbow. “Come on, you shouldn’t be here.”

But Harry doesn’t even turn to see who has sneaked up on him for the first time in years. He puts a foot in front of the other, hand outstretched until his fingers touch the thick plastic. It takes but the slightest of movements to push it to the side to reveal the table and the man on it.

His white-blond hair is streaked with dried, brown blood. His skin is a worrying shade of grey and when Harry moves to side, he sees his cut-open chest, flaps of skin upturned like windows into a terrible sight.

He stumbles back, a terrified instinct. And then the same hand is on his elbow again, leading him away, away.

 

The next time Harry wakes up, he’s in bed. Claudia sits in a chair next to him, waiting.

“Where are we?” he asks first.

“Safe house outside the city.”

“Where’s—”

“He’s going to make it,” she says tersely. “What happened?”

“They’re still operating on him?”

Claudia sighs. “So, you remember. I was hoping the draught had been strong enough to… well, never mind. And yes, the healers aren’t done with him—”

“I need to see him,” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“No, you need to stop barging in.”

“But—”

Placing a hand on his, she says, “He’ll be fine.”

Then, suddenly remembering, he blurts, “He knew.”

“What do you mean he knew?”

“He knew there was something wrong, he knew, and I still—”

“Harry,” Claudia starts, and he doesn’t think her voice has ever sounded so kind, “we all thought you were the risk. He couldn’t have known about the tapes. Come on, sit back.”

Reluctantly, Harry lets her push him back on the bed. “Everything happened too fast. I Apparated —I think the noise gave us away. But, I mean, it was the fastest way, and he was going to be surrounded either way, so I figured…”

“You got him out, that’s what matters.”

“Barely,” Harry admits. “Curses started flying at us, from the moment my feet touched the ground. It didn’t take long, a few minutes at most before I reached him. I’d been hit twice, so he had to carry me—” but he has to stop himself before going on.

“And?”

“He had to carry us both,” he continues, voice thin. “It was two seconds at the most, one to stand, another to Disapparate. He was hit somewhere in between.”

“And then?”

“He managed to get us a block away from the safe house, I patched us up and dragged us in. What was that curse?”

“Old magic,” Claudia says. “Dark, of course. It’s been a nightmare just trying to keep him from bleeding to death. But they have located the source and should be finishing closing the wound as we speak.”

“Do you know who’s behind it?”

“I have my guesses. But, before you ask any further, the Centre has officially pulled the both of you from the case.”

“ _What_?”

“Your identities were nearly compromised. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they actually caught a glimpse of you before Draco got you here.” Claudia says firmly. “You are being ordered to lie low, understood?”

Harry grits his teeth but nods.

“You should get some more rest. I’ll wake you up when they’ve finished patching up Draco.”

 

The next time he sees Draco he isn’t so much “patched-up” as he is “not-dead”. He’s still grey and unmoving, but his chest rises and falls rhythmically, a long scar trailing all the way down.

“We gave him a strong draught to keep him asleep as he heals,” the healer explains. “He’ll be out for the next 48 hours.”

Harry nods his acknowledgement before pulling up a chair to the side of his bed.

 

Draco is feverish after the draught wears off. He tosses and turns, sweating and shivering from head to toe. He screams in his sleep, and Harry ends up taking permanent residence in the chair by his bed.

It’s well past midnight when one of Draco’s screams wakes him up.

“It’s a nightmare,” Harry says, rushing to kneel by the side of the bed. He takes Draco’s hand, rubbing circles until he stops shaking in his sleep.

He thinks Draco’s gone back to sleep after a while and is about to go back to his chair when he feels his hand being squeezed.

Draco’s voice is a thin whisper when he says, “I’m sorry.”

And it isn’t a dream this time. Because this time, he’s looking straight at Harry, his eyes clear of all fever.

“Don’t be silly,” he says. “I should be the one apologising.”

Making a valiant effort to shake his head in disagreement, Draco replies, “No… I… Eder…”

“Shh,” Harry says, “Try to sleep.”

Those last words must have been the extent of Draco’s energy. Soon, he’s closed his eyes again, his breath even.

 

Nothing the healers do to him seems to take.

“It must be a side effect of the curse,” one of them says.

But that just brings them back to square one. Back to putting him to sleep to open him up. It takes five hours of Draco lying on the table, plastic curtains around him, before the healers find what they missed: a growing tumour in his heart.

The head healer points her wand at it, singing it off Draco’s heart carefully. She manages to get most of it, dumping it into a silver plate. But a piece stubbornly sticks to the beating heart. And when a couple of attempts with her wand prove as fruitless as the first, the head healers asks for a silver knife. She takes the green tumour in between her index and her thumb, slowing cutting away.

There’s an inevitable splatter of blood as Draco starts thrashing on the table. The head healer is dropping the knife onto the silver plate, pushing it into Harry’s arms and ordering him out in one minute flat. Her fingers are still stoppering a whole in Draco’s heart when Harry last looks.

His hands are shaking violently as he staggers backwards. He doesn’t mean to, but the plate slips through his hands, and it’s a mess on the floor of red and green tumour. And it’s only then, as he tries to clean up the mess, that he really sees the tumour. That he notices how it twists and thrashes about on its own.

“What’s happened?” Claudia asks, “What went wrong with—” she stops, clearly having noticed the green thing, too. “Is that what was inside him?”

He nods.

“Don’t touch it,” she orders, raising her wand. She takes out a vial from her pocket, and with a twirl of her wand, the green goo is neatly stored.

“What is it?” Harry asks.

She looks at him as though she’s seeing him for the first time in a while. “Nothing,” she answers, turning away.

His first instinct is to hold her back. Demand an explanation, demand to know what is happening to Draco. But he stops halfway there, her words and actions registering in his brain. She asked him, point blank, if the green goo had been the thing inside Draco. She knew enough not to touch it. She had a vial prepared. Somehow, she knew. She bloody well knew what was wrong from the start.

Instead of following her, he goes the opposite way. Taking the stairs two at a time, he rushes to his room and digs out the bag he used to bring over some of his and Draco’s things. It’s an old bag, in fact, it’s his oldest one. He kept it because it was the one Hermione put an enlargement charm on. And, if he remembered correctly, there still a couple of things in that bag that he’d never used.

He fumbles around the bag, frantically searching until his fingers touch what feels like a dusty piece of string. Carefully, he pulls it out to reveal an old, but still working, extendable ear. He pockets it before heading out.

 

Harry’s heart beats loudly in his chest as he stands a few feet from the operating table. Claudia is in there with the healers, and, unaware of his old gadget, they have spent the last 15 minutes discussing the moving green thing in the vial.

“The internal bleeding we first encountered was probably a diversion,” the head healer explains, “to hide that.”

“Naturally,” Claudia agrees. “You’ve seen this before?”

The head healer nods. “In torture prisons, to get someone to talk.”

 

That night, Harry lies awake, twirling the string of the extendable ear in his hands. Whomever had ambushed them had wanted more than their heads, Harry is convinced of this much. But then, none of the curses that hit him were anything like that. No, it was only the one aimed at Draco that had done this.

So, the enemy knew Draco knows something. Privileged information Harry apparently doesn’t have. He doesn’t like the thought of that, and yet, he has to admit to himself that it isn’t a new one.

He thinks back on his nights spent by Draco’s bedside, the incoherencies he screamed in his sleep. Then, remembering the night when Draco’s head had cleared, that one moment of being lucid that had cost him so much, Harry whispers a name to the darkness, “Eder.”

He stands up in a rush. He’s sure seen that name before. He’s sure— The paper. Of course, he thinks, finding this morning’s copy on a chair.

And there it is, on the front page. There, right before him and everyone else, in large font and bold letters: _Eder, the heir to the throne is dead_.

Harry flips through the pages of the paper until he finds the right article. It’s a memorial piece that goes on and on about the great prowess of Eder, only son of the current monarch. And in a country where the monarchy still has some sway, Harry can easily see the scandal unfolding.

The only heir to the throne, found stabbed at least a week after his murder. A known escort of the deceased caught at home with the murder weapon and no alibi. The paper gave no name and the photo of the accused escort was nothing but a blurred image.

Yet Harry has no trouble recognising the man. He remembers him, how could he not? After all, he’d tailed Mr. Awad for nearly a month not too long ago.

 

Draco’s recovery is slow and tedious. The fact that it has to take place under Claudia’s careful watch only makes matters even worse. Harry has to sit on his newfound intel for nearly a month before they are both dispatched from the safe house.

“No orders for now,” Claudia says, smiling and toad-like. “Lie low.”

They nod before taking their Polyjuice potion. In a matter of minutes they are out the door.

“Bloody hell,” Draco says, shielding his eyes from the sunlight.

Harry pretends he hasn’t heard.

They turn to a dark alley that smells of piss and garbage. The sort of dingy place where no one would walk into. It’s Harry who takes the lead this time around, and with a loud ‘crack’ they are gone.

He Apparates them on the side of a forest, unable to go back home until they receive the all-clear from the Centre. He’s been wondering how much longer that will take. But for now, he guesses they’ll have to do with wild berries, river water and the occasional farm pilfering.

He puts down his bag, taking out Claudia’s parting gift. The tent is small and old. It holds one double bed and a small kitchen with the bare necessities.

“Roomy,” Draco says, stepping inside. “Lovely smell, too. What is it? Rotten cabbages?”

Harry stays silent.

“Right,” Draco says, placing his things on the bed. “Are you going to tell me what’s the matter with you?”

“There’s nothing wrong.”

“So you’ve just been sulking because it’s so much fun.”

Harry looks at him for a moment, considering him. Then, “I’m going to go look for some food.”

He leaves everything behind except his wand and stalks deep into the forest. When he knows for sure the Draco isn’t following him, he Disapparates to yet another dark alley. This time, however, in the middle of the city.

Finding a copy of today’s paper is an easy feat. He reads it, front to cover, skipping no small lines. No mention of Mr. Awad or his trial. In fact, since that first article, there’s been no mention of the crime at all.

Glancing down at his watch, he realises his little excursion has already taken too long. Reluctantly, he leaves the folded paper on a chair before making his way to the nearest bakery. He’s never felt particularly good about stealing food, not even when he, Ron and Hermione were on the hunt for Horcruxes. Yet, short of showing himself at the nearest bank, he has no other option.

The job is a simple one, and before anyone can raise an eyebrow at the fact that he never paid, he’s out of the door with two bread loaves, a block of cheese and half a dozen eggs. Finding the closest dark alley, he checks there’s no one around before Disapparating to the campsite.

Despite the time he spent away, he still manages to arrive before Draco expected him. That much becomes clear when Draco stares at him, wide-eyed, upon his return. Harry, however, is not really looking at Draco’s face. Rather, he’s staring at his naked chest, where the long scar is still angry red.

“You’re back early,” Draco says, turning away.

In two strides, Harry is at his side. “I’m late, actually.”

“Really? I must have lost track of time.”

On instinct, Harry places a hand on Draco’s forehead to check for a fever. They haven’t been this close to each other in a while, and Harry immediately regrets not staying longer in the city. He regrets coming earlier when he needn’t have bothered and the fact that his instincts are still to rush to Draco’s side. But mostly, he regrets whatever ingrained impulse that keeps him from walking away.

“You should’ve waited for me,” he says, taking the bandages from Draco’s hands.

“You already worry too much,” Draco replies. “Besides,” he continues, wincing as Harry spreads salve over his scar, “this is borderline undignified.”

“I’ve seen you in worse shape,” Harry lies.

“No, you haven’t.”

 

Days melt one into another, the cooler spring weather slowly paving the way for a warm summer. It’s lucky, he supposes, that they didn’t end up in this position in the dead of winter. He remembers only too vividly trying to find food when hunting for Horcruxes and Ron’s irritable mood. Before, he would’ve thought Draco would be no better on an empty stomach. Their years in this assignment, however, have already proved him wrong.

They’ve been cooped up in their tent for a little under two weeks, when Draco shows up, bearing a bowl full of berries. The berries, he must have gotten in the forest, the bowl belonged to a farmer from whom Harry had stolen a collection of fruits just four days earlier.

“There’s a nice orchard about an hour’s walk away from here,” he explains, setting down the bowl. “I picked these just outside.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, his voice politer than he intended.

This, of course, is not lost on Draco, who raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything else.

Harry feels his eyes on him more often than not these days. He wonders if this is how Draco felt, all these years, when he unabashedly stared. But this isn’t quite the same. There’s something calculating in Draco when their eyes meet, something Harry is sure he never felt until now.

Some days, he feels like turning to Draco to ask, point blank, what’s going on. But every day he’s convinced Draco would never tell him the truth, not unless he has proof. So proof is what he is out to get every time he leaves the tent.

The first step on his mission is to find the slippery Mr. Awad. After the papers produce little to no information, he starts reaching out to his most unsavoury sources. He only chooses them because they are the ones he kept from Draco, not wanting him to be exposed to whatever they were up to. In the past, they had been a constant source for concern. Now, however, they are his only chance.

One of them reminds Harry of Mundungus Fletcher. It’s something about the smell of firewhisky on his clothes, and the jittery way in which he carries himself that are reminiscent of Mundungus. And, much like Mundungus during the war, his new source is terribly useful. It’s him who brings Harry the most intel on Mr. Awad’s recent activities.

He has the bold strokes of the story, has had them for a few days now. After his arrest, Mr. Awad stayed locked away for three days and nights before escaping his imprisonment by unknown means. His wit and flare for disguises carried him as far as the northernmost border, where he was recaptured after someone in his party betrayed him to the border patrol. Locked up again, his second stint in jail was a little longer. He managed to escape his death sentence a mere couple of hours before it was supposed to take place. This time, he headed east alone, according to Harry’s sources, with his trail vanishing just before the eastern border.

In the weeks since they vacated the safe house, Harry had procured himself a detailed map of the country, which he is currently examining.

“Where are you?” he whispers to no one in particular as his eyes roams the eastern towns.

Mr. Awad’s trail had vanished a mere week ago, and the more time passed, the less successful Harry would be. He’s been giving the question some thought. There are three towns near the eastern border. The time alone he would have to invest scouting these makes it impossible without his absence being noticed. Then, there is the question of Mr. Awad himself. If his sources are true, Mr. Awad has not yet crossed the border. Too injured to do so, apparently. So, chances are Harry will find him. And a man who escaped high-security imprisonment not once, but twice, is a force to be reckoned with.

The more he thinks about it, the more he realises he will not reach his goal on his own. Using his unsavoury connections is out of the question. They would be more a liability than any sort of help. Even if they weren’t, Harry would be too distracted thinking of all the things they could do wrong to be able to concentrate on the mission at hand. No, he needed proper resources in order to get to the bottom of this.

He has been considering this for a while and has already come to a conclusion on what must be done. _Play it out in your head_ , Draco once told him. _Play all possible scenarios before you make your move_.

The following day, he finds himself pieces of parchments, ink and quill before stealing three different birds. He writes the same message on all parchments and sends the birds flying north. Then, scrubbing his hands clean, he grabs his wand and a cut-out of a local paper on the east and walks.

 

Claudia opens her door and stares. “I was under the impression I’d told you to lie low,” she says, letting him in.

“You did,” Harry agrees, taking out the paper cut-out. “And I have been, until very recently, when this was brought to my attention.”

Reaching for it, Claudia’s surprise lasts but a fraction of a second. It’s a twitch of her lips no one would’ve noticed unless they had been looking for it.

“I assume you know who that is?” Harry asks.

“Of course,” she replies. “The alleged killer of Eder, former heir to this nation’s throne. He was in the news for some time.”

“Indeed. It seems like this fine nation has yet to get a firm grip on the murderer.”

“It would appear so.”

Not looking away from her, Harry says, “I think we should go get him for them.”

“Interesting idea,” Claudia says twirling the cut-out in her hands. “But why should we get involved?”

“A wanted man in return for something else,” he proposes.

“Anything in particular?”

“That is for the Centre to decide, not me.” Then, dealing what he knows to be the killer blow, “They will know what is best for the cause.”

Claudia smiles. “Indeed. Who brought this to you?”

“A source who thought I might be interested.”

“And they found you in the middle of the woods?”

“I’ve been trying to keep up,” Harry answers, probably the most honest words he’s spoken to her today.

Again, she smiles, unsurprised. “Naturally, you have.” Handing Harry back the cut-out, she says, “Come tomorrow with your partner, I’ll have instructions from the Centre for you then.”

 

Back at the tent, he gives the cut-out to Draco, who is better at his job than Claudia in that he doesn’t let slip any hint of his surprise. That, or he isn’t really surprised. Harry doesn’t know which one is worse.

“Your whore,” Draco says. “He isn’t looking too good these days.”

“It might have something to do with the fact that he’s a fugitive,” Harry retorts.

“Ah, of course. Alleged murderer, isn’t he?” At Harry’s raised eyebrows, he adds, “Well, forgive me for forgetting. I was under the weather when that particular clusterfuck went down.”

“That’s one word for it,” Harry says. “I’m glad you remember him, however. Because we’re going to go get him.”

This time, Draco makes no effort to hide his surprise. “ _What_? Why!”

“A prisoner in exchange for something else.”

“Is that what Claudia said?”

“No. Actually, this bit of information came to me first. Though Claudia has already agreed.”

“We’re not ready for a mission on this scale. I’m not ready, I can barely walk a mile as it is!”

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, “I’m sure they’ll send me in first.”

Draco stares at him for a long moment, and Harry gets the impression he’s looking for something in his face. For some sort of explanation. In the end, he just replies, “Very well.”

 

They don’t speak to one another before they reach Claudia’s the following day. They have been living together long enough that there is no need for them to do so in order to move around the tent and carry on with their day.

Harry watches as Draco changes his own bandages, the revealed scar healing nicely. For the first time, he considers the possibility that Draco wasn’t lying when he said they weren’t ready. He wonders, if push comes to shove, whether he isn’t leading the both of them to their deaths. Then again, if he waits, what’s to say Mr. Awad won’t be healed and gone by the time Draco is healed and ready to go?

They pack up the tent in silence, convinced as they both are that they will be journeying east from tonight on.

“Ready?” Harry asks.

At Draco’s nod, he takes his arm, Disapparating.

 

Claudia isn’t alone. In her living room, sipping tea and eating a biscuit is none other than Georgia Wagner.

“What is she doing here?” Draco asks first.

“She’s going with you,” Claudia answers.

What transpires next between Draco and Claudia is something Harry didn’t anticipate.

“You’re sending a new recruit with us on this suicide missions?” Draco asks, in a tone of someone who just wants to clarify a minor detail. “That must be a new low for you.”

“On the contrary, I think she will be very helpful.”

“To whom?”

Claudia’s smile is all teeth. “You’re still recovering,” she points out. “An extra pair of hands won’t do you any harm.”

Before Draco can make another snide remark, Harry cuts in to ask, “What are our orders?”

The sun has gone down by the time they finish going over the details of the plan. In under 24 hours the Centre has managed to pin down a rough location for Mr. Awad. Their mission will be to locate his exact coordinates and bring him back.

“Alive,” Claudia clarifies. “He’s no use to us dead.”

As expected, Harry is designated as the retrieval agent, while Draco and Georgia stand guard.

“If our sources are correct, Mr. Awad shouldn’t be capable of much due to recent injuries. The real threat will be anyone watching his back.”

The three of them nod their understanding before picking up their things to leave. Claudia bids them farewell, reminding them again at the door that Mr. Awad must be captured alive, pointedly looking at Draco as she does so.

 

It takes them a full day to journey east. Between Draco’s healing scar and their need to go by undetected in a town where neither of them has ever been, they can hardly Apparate anywhere but well outside it, in the woods, where no one might hear and where they might tend to Draco, should something go wrong.

“How are you?” Harry asks as soon as their feet hit the ground that night.

Draco holds up a finger, lips pursed. He breathes in and out a couple of times, holding his midriff as he does.

“Fine,” he manages at last, pale and swallowing hard.

“It’ll be best to set up camp here,” Georgia says, giving him an appraising look. “Give you some time to recover.”

“Agreed,” Harry replies, already taking out their tent.

It’s a long night. They have dinner after Draco strips down to his trousers to put salve on his bleeding scar. Then the three of them bid each other good night, Georgia going inside her own little tent.

Harry can’t sleep is the thing. He keeps going over what will happen tomorrow. What he will do if they find Mr. Awad, what he will ask. He won’t have much time. Georgia’s presence is something he hadn’t anticipated, so he’ll have to get the truth out of him even faster, regretting now more than ever the fact that he brought no Veritaserum with him.

Suddenly, Draco says into the darkness, “This was your idea, so what’s wrong now?”

“You should go to sleep.”

“I can’t,” Draco admits. “You’ve single-handedly thrown us into a mission I’m not sure we’ll come back from.”

“We will,” Harry says, no doubts in his mind. “He’s weak.”

“He won’t be our only problem.” Then, “You’ve already done something very stupid, try not to do anything as idiotic tomorrow.”

Biting his tongue, Harry refuses to take the bait.

 

The following morning finds them walking to the main town square just after drinking their batches of Polyjuice potion. They’ll have about three hours on this one, so they each carry a flask that will give them about fourteen more hours. The last drop will be the last drop in a while.

The risks of being seen are the least of their worries. The first thing to do is scout the place. Get to know the town in and out to avoid surprises and plan escape routes. They each have a map, which they divide into three zones for their scouting before going their separate ways and agreeing on a time and place to meet.

The town is not even the size of a small city. It takes Harry almost three hours to walk around every street and alley in his zone, memorising and dotting down on the map key landmarks and useful spots.

They meet back for lunch at a small café near the main square, where they take a table inside, where only a handful of people sit. Silently, they spread out all their maps on the table, copying each other’s information onto their own piece of parchment.

“Any suspicious activity?” Harry asks as the waiter leaves with their order.

“No,” the other two reply.

“If he’s still here,” Georgia says, “he’s well-hidden.”

Harry and Draco agree.

“We knew finding him would be the hardest,” Harry says, glancing sideways at Draco. “Any thoughts?”

There’s a moment of silence broken by Georgia. “He’ll be too weak to Disapparate, correct?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a fugitive, which means he’ll want an escape route, in case something goes wrong. If he can’t Disapparate, what’s the next best choice?”

“Floo powder,” Harry says.

“All chimneys are being watched.”

“Portkey?”

“Same problem as with Apparition. Too strenuous on the body.”

“Which leaves,” Georgia says, “underground escape routes and flying. Going underground would be risky, besides, it’s not like we can go knocking on doors to check people’s cellars. No, if I were him I’d choose flying.” She stops, biting her lower lip as she considers the map. “I say we go for the tallest buildings in town.”

“Not a bad plan,” Harry says.

They both take Draco’s silence as agreement, and a new plan is decided shortly after. They will not be going their separate ways. Instead, they will join efforts to target all buildings above five stories high, which are a total of four. They will use magic to draw any witch or wizard out as well as to check for preventive barriers.

“And if the place is protected by the Fidelius Charm?” Harry asks, belatedly, almost just to himself.

For the first time in a while, it’s Draco who speaks, “Who will agree to perform a Fidelius Charm to help known criminal?”

It isn’t a solid answer, and Harry can think of a couple of counter-arguments, but they would lead them back to square one. At least now they have somewhere to start.

The first two buildings are discarded immediately, after bricks chip off their façades with a single spell. The third building proves to be a little more robust, though that may just be thanks to Muggles getting better at laying bricks than to any sort of magic. The fourth building, however, is a bit odd.

The spells Georgia sends its way don’t seem to connect with the walls at all. And the statues guarding the front door have a funny, menacing look about them, like they’re about to spring to life at moment’s notice.

“He must be here,” Georgia says, putting her wand away. “I don’t see anyone though.”

The sun is starting to set by now, its orange glow glinting off the windows.

“There might be people waiting inside,” Harry says.

“So, we go in together.”

“No, he might have people outside, too. It could be a trap.” Harry looks at the building. Only six stories high. “You two stand guard out here. I’ll send these if it’s all clear,” he says, producing green sparks from his wand.

“And if there’s something guarding him?” Georgia asks.

“I’m sure our magic will make enough noise,” Harry explains. “But I need you to watch my back out here as well as look out for any movement on the roof in case he gets out before I reach him. I also don’t want to risk him getting any ideas about whether he’d rather die sooner than expected. So, don’t come in until I send the sparks.”

“And if the place is protected to keep things like your magic from making any distinguishable noise?” Draco asks.

“Well, then…”

“It’s seven thirty,” Draco goes on. “We’ll give you until nine before we come in.”

“Alright,” Harry agrees. “Nine it is.”

He wishes the two of them good luck before putting his wand in his pocket and crossing the street.

As he moves up the steps leading to the front door, he can feel a change in the air, as though his body has crossed some sort of barrier. The eyes on the statues turn to look at him as he stands in front of the door and rings the bell.

There’s an eerie feeling in the air as the door swings open on its own and closes shut right after he steps in. The room is dark with the curtains shut, though Harry doesn’t dare take a false step. Instead, he whispers “ _Lumos_ ” to light the tip of his wand and assess the situation.

It’s empty inside. No furniture or decorations of any sorts. No people as far as he can tell. He takes a small pebble from his pocket and throws it in direction of the stairs. It explodes into flames halfway there.

“Alright then,” he says to himself.

The entire place turns out to be booby-trapped. Although Harry throws pebbles in the direction he wants to go, he doesn’t get them all. He steps into an invisible wall that immediately pours ice-cold water on him. Then he narrowly avoids stepping into a smoking puddle of purple potion that has just replaced what used to be part of the stone floor.

It’s a slow way up, and there is no noise coming from any part of the building. Could Awad have made a bid for the roof already? Only way to find out, he thinks, sidestepping what looks like a landmine.

When he reaches the landing on the third floor, he hears the church bells of the main square chiming in the distance, announcing a new hour. Hurry, he thinks. He must hurry to get to question Awad. To get his answers.

The number of traps diminish as he climbs up. Each floor has less and less, though on all he’s found nothing but empty beds. And then, finally, he climbs the last step to the sixth floor.

Rolling three pebbles on the floor, he checks for traps laid out in the dark. Two go off on their own, which is one more than the floor before. So, again, he rolls pebbles, this time in a different direction. Another trap goes off, but this time, he notices one of the pebbles disappearing into the darkness. Stretching his neck as far as he can without moving, Harry points the tip of his lit wand in the direction of the gone pebble.

There’s a black hole on that side of the corridor, so wide it almost stretches from wall to wall. He remembers the veil in his fifth year, and how Sirius disappeared behind it to never come back. Then he remembers the company that Awad used to keep before he became a fugitive. As an escort of the Head of the Department of Mysteries, who knew what kind of magic he had access to. 

Swallowing, Harry prepares himself to jump over the black hole. He clears the path first, making sure no traps stand in his way. Stepping back, he calculates the steps it will take just to the edge of the hole. He will be running, too, for impulse, so he factors this in. Then, taking a deep breath, he takes the leap.

Landing with a thud on the other side of the hole, he pushes up to find the last door. And there it is, on the far-right corner. He’s convinced there are no more traps waiting for him, but he still throws the last of his pebbles out, just in case. When nothing happens, he walks over to the door, the floor creaking under him.

The door is halfway open, so it’s only a matter of pushing it a little further to let himself in. He locks it once he’s in. No interruptions, he thinks.

And, out of nowhere, for a small room comes a hoarse voice, “So, you’ve found me.”

Stepping into the smaller room, Harry says, “Mr. Awad.”

The light is very dim, and it’s a moment before he can take the full picture in. It isn’t a very pretty one. Awad is propped up against two pillows, face sallow, skin pale and bruised and bleeding in places.

“You were not whom I was expecting,” he says, and Harry notices how his lips are dried and chapped, too.

“But you were expecting someone.”

Awad smiles weakly. “I’ve known my days were numbered since they found that knife in my place.”

“So, you deny the knife is yours? Your fingerprints were all over it.”

“And no one has been framed like that before.”

“There will be a trial,” Harry says, though he’s not entirely sure why. “You may request a Veritaserum questioning, if you didn’t do it—”

“There will be no trial,” Awad interrupts. “I was sentenced to death before my second escape, and there was no trial. No point in having one, I s’ppose.”

“How do you mean?” Harry asks, and he can feel himself getting closer to the truth.

“Where do I know you from?” Awad asks instead, tilting his head.

“You don’t,” Harry replies firmly, and for the first time thinking about how long he’s got before the Polyjuice wears off.

“I do,” Awad insists. “I’ve seen that disguise before.”

Harry doesn’t bother denying he’s taken Polyjuice. After all, it’s common practice in their line of work.

“You didn’t kill the heir, I’ll believe that,” he says. “But you’re a spy, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I was recruited for my exceptional beauty and skills.” Awad smiles again, this time revealing a few missing teeth. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

There is little left of the beautiful man he once followed around for a month. But his smile, crooked and maimed as it is, still holds the same enticing mischievousness it held before.

“Who recruited you?” Harry asks next, heart thumping.

“Why do you—” Awad starts, but stops himself. Harry can almost see the wheels turning in his head as his eyes narrow in his direction. “Oh, my!” he exclaims, and the exaltation of it drives him into a coughing fit.

Harry asks again. But Awad is too busy coughing and laughing hysterically to even hear his words.

“You really don’t know!” he cries, his breath laboured still. “You _fool_.”

He looks mad as he cackles, his missing teeth and sallow skin sticking to his bones only making the sight of him more sinister than ever before. And maybe it’s the way in which Awad is right out laughing at him, taunting him. Maybe it’s his own desperation or anger at the truth that he can feel being kept from him.

Maybe this ugly part of himself has always been there.

But before he knows what he’s doing, he’s lowering his wand and walking to the bedside. It isn’t hard to find a fresh wound on the weakened body, a fresh wound to stick a finger in. Awad stops cackling to cry out in pain.

“You will tell me,” Harry says, “or I’ll find more wound to press.”

There are tears in the corner of Awad’s eyes as he grits his teeth and sucks in a breath.

“Your partner,” he answers at last.

Harry feels as though he’s been punched in the chest. “You’re lying,” he whispers, stumbling back.

“You know I’m not. That’s how I know you.” He’s smiling again, though his enticing charm has lost some of its shine. “I followed him once. Or well, he let me follow him once.” Moving his hand, he pushes aside his shirt to reveal what must be the only healed scar on his body. “He gave me this, for asking too many questions about you.”

The scar isn’t too wide, but Harry can tell from the way it dips into the skin that the wound was probably deep.

“He wouldn’t,” he starts, but the truth is he doesn’t know anymore.

“I’d wondered for a while,” Awad says, “why he was so protective of you. Why did he work against you?”

“Work against me?”

“Oh, yes. He had me distract you a couple of times. At the bar, when he called just when the timing was right, remember? What did he say when you asked him how he’d found you?” A snort, “Better yet, did you even ask?”

“You led me there,” Harry whispers. “Why? Why is—”

“I’ve wondered many times recently,” Awad confesses.

And there is one word that sticks out. “Recently? That was months ago.”

“Oh, darling. It was your partner who framed me. It was his knife that they found with my prints. Same one he used to give me this,” he says, pointing at the healed scar. “But seeing you here, I wonder, where is he?”

“That knife, describe it,” Harry demands. “Describe it, or—”

“Emerald hilt, silver blade, gold filigree on the blade.”

Harry sucks in another breath, this time, to keep himself from snapping the first thing in his path. There are no two knives like that in the world. Narcissa Malfoy had it custom-made for her only son.

“You know, the one thing true about my accusation was the knife,” Awad continues. “That was the knife used to cut young Eder’s throat. Why do you think he never told you that?”

“He,” Harry starts, gulping against a lump in his throat. “I…”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” Awad says. “What your government and he are doing, none of it matters now.”

“My government?”

“Yes, your corrupt government. Your government that murders left and right to keep their fragile power over those they seek to rule. And your partner?” he says. “Well, he’s the instrument of their darkest deeds.”

“You’re lying!” Harry yells, his life falling apart at the words he already knows to be true.

“I’m not. But again, none of it matters now.” And with that, he throws off the sheets, revealing his wand, pointed at Harry. “You didn’t think I’d go down without a fight, did you?”


	3. Part III

Draco glances up at the building, then down at his watch, anxiety settling heavy in his stomach. The night is so deadly quiet he can hear his clock tick further and further away from the deadline.

“What’s taking so long?” Georgia asks.

Draco shushes her, waiting, waiting. Harry should’ve given them his signal over five minutes ago. And then five minutes become ten, and ten become twelve, and—

“Something’s gone wrong,” he whispers. “You stay here, stand guard. I’ll go.”

Taking cover under the darkness of the moonless night, he moves carefully towards the building. He feels himself crossing a magical barrier before noticing the eyes of the statues turning in his direction. He remembers Harry ringing the bell before the door swung open for him, so he does the same.

There’s only darkness inside, but the smell is telling enough. “ _Lumos_ ,” he whispers and sees a number of detonated traps strewn all over the floor.

His heart races, his first thought of Harry, caught by one of these. But there are no signs of Harry or blood as far as he can tell, which is good enough for him.

They’re running thirty minutes late when he finally reaches the sixth floor. There’s a sliver of light coming from a door on the far-right corner. He lights the way with his wand, where again there are signs of used traps, but none of Harry. He moves carefully around them as he did before, his boots sliding noiselessly across the floor.

He listens at the door, and when no noise comes from it, he whispers “ _Alohomora_ ” to push it open. The scene that greets his eyes makes his breath catch in his throat.

A dim lamp on the nightstand illuminates the room. There’s shattered glass everywhere. A couple of paintings have fallen to the ground, their frames shattered to pieces. And then, there’s the undeniable smell of blood. It takes Draco a moment to locate its source, but there, in a corner, he catches a glimpse of a limp body spread-eagled on the floor.

“Harry!” Draco whisper-yells. “Harry, where the bloody hell are you!”

He walks further into the room, careful not to step on glass or anything else, so that he almost has to tiptoe to make his way.

He finds Harry in the first room, sitting on a chair and staring at his bloody hands. Next to him, the tip of his wand is shining a soft light.

“Harry,” Draco whispers, gingerly stepping forward until they are inches apart. “Come on,” he says again, reaching out.

But, suddenly, as though snapping out of a trance, Harry grabs a hold of his wrist.

His grip is strong enough to leave a bruise as he says, “Don’t.” He looks up from his hands, his eyes glinting dangerously in the dim light. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Stunned, Draco wrenches his arm away. “What happened?” he asks, heart beating unnaturally fast.

“How long have you known?” Harry asks instead of answering.

“How long have I known what?”

“Don’t play stupid!” Harry all but yells.

“Lower your bloody voice.”

Then, Harry is standing up. He looks menacing as he picks up his wand and points it at Draco’s throat.

“How long,” he starts again, walking forward and making Draco take a couple of steps back, “have you known?”

Draco is up against a wall by the time Harry finishes talking. He gulps and opens his mouth before he hears a noise coming from downstairs. Georgia.

Panic floods over him. “Harry, we have to clean up this mess before anyone sees.”

“How long—”

“Stop being daft,” Draco cuts him off. “This is not the place.”

“It is the place if I say so,” Harry says, gritting his teeth.

The sound of footsteps up the stairs.

“You want to kill me?” Draco asks, now pushing away from the wall.

Harry still has his wand against his throat, but he can’t give a single fuck.

“Tell me the truth,” Harry demands.

The noise of someone coming, closer and closer.

Desperate, Draco grabs a hold of Harry’s wand. But instead of shoving it away, he pushes it deeper into the skin of his throat.

“You want to kill me? Do it,” he dares. “Go on, do it.”

Harry stares at him, his eyes looking for something.

“Well, if you won’t,” Draco says next, “then step aside.”

This time, he does shove Harry’s wand away. Without looking back, he steps outside where there’s blood everywhere. With a flick of his own wand, he cleans up the blood. With a second flick, he fixes the broken glass and assorted decorations. The footsteps are just outside the door as he’s leaning over the dead body and cleaning it up.

Then Georgia is stepping inside, a stunned look on her face as watches Draco stand over their target’s dead body.

“What happened to bringing him alive?” she asks, stepping forward. “What the hell happened here?”

“Not everything can go according to plan,” Draco replies.

“Not everything can go according to plan?” Georgia parrots. “You murdered our target!”

“Keep your voice down,” Draco growls.

“Now what?” she asks exasperatedly. “Where’s Harry?”

“In the other room, cleaning up.” No point in lying, Draco thinks, though his reply makes Georgia raise her eyebrows. “Don’t you worry, he was just defending himself,” he says, giving her a meaningful look. “I dealt the final blow.”

“Well, if there was no other way,” she starts.

“There wasn’t.”

“Fine. What now?”

“Take the body to Claudia,” Draco replies. “She’ll know what to do.”

“Any message I should pass along?” Georgia asks, leaning over the dead body to cast a spell over it and make it lighter.

He shakes his head. Then, changing his mind, “Let the Centre know this one put up a fight. I had to deal with it.”

Nodding, Georgia casts a disillusionment charm over the body before throwing it over her shoulder. With a loud ‘crack,’ she is gone.

Rushing to the other room, Draco grabs a hold of a very surprised Harry. It takes all his strength to heave him on his feet. He can feel the warm blood from his scar, but it doesn’t matter, because soon, they too are Disapparating.

They land with a thud on the backyard of their former house. It’s the first place that came to his mind, and he’s already regretting his choice. There’s nothing to do, he thinks as he feels his dampened shirt. He won’t survive another Apparation this soon.

Instead, he digs in his bags for more salve and bandages, to relief the pain and stop the blood. Not caring whether any nosy neighbour sees, he takes off his cloak and shirt. There is no sound coming from Harry as Draco cleans his chest and goes through the process of applying salve and changing bandages.

In fact, there is no movement from Harry until Draco is done and turning to him to say, “Let’s go inside.”

He reaches out for Harry’s hand, but Harry glares at him, swatting his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, stepping forward, his wand out. “Don’t you ever fucking touch me again.”

“Inside,” Draco says. “Before our neighbours call the Muggle officers.”

There is hatred glinting in Harry’s eyes as they stand in their old living room.

“Harry,” he tries.

But Harry just raises his wand. Automatically, Draco raises his, too, just as Harry’s spell shatters a vase to his left. His next spell gets one of their portraits. The third one takes out the rest of the pictures in one clean sweep.

In five seconds flat, Harry has destroyed everything in the corridor where they are standing. He’s red in the face as he moves forward, breaking everything in his path and yelling for good measure. There’s crash after loud crash, glass and china flying everywhere.

“Stop it!” Draco cries.

But Harry keeps going, shooting spells left and right until their entire ground floor looks as though a hurricane went through and forgot to take the roof with it. And when that is all but destroyed, he heads for the stairs.

“Stop it!” Draco exclaims again, but this time he rushes to Harry.

He manages to grab a hold of him, which makes Harry turn to retaliate. They struggle against each other, with Draco barely managing to get the upper hand and make Harry drop his wand.

“I said—”

“Stop destroying our fucking house!”

And that’s when Harry punches him, square on the nose. He doesn’t bother picking up his wand, he just lunges forward with his bare fists. His next punch misses Draco’s face by an inch. Another punch, and Draco is holding up Harry’s right wrist, then his left one.

“Let go of me,” he says through gritted teeth, but Draco holds on fast.

He has no idea how he manages to muster up the strength not to let Harry go, but he does. He holds on as Harry struggles and shouts himself hoarse.

He has no idea how long it goes for. No idea how long they fight each other in the dark. He can feel his scar tearing, _again_. But he doesn’t let go.

Eventually, Harry’s body starts shaking, and he’s no longer struggling, no longer trying to throw punches. He sinks to the floor, shaking, his head in his hands.

Terrified and exhausted, Draco ventures, “Harry?”

Harry’s voice is a hoarse, shaky whisper when asks, “How long have you known?” He looks up from his hands, tears streaking his face.

It’s a sight that hollows Draco from the inside. But he owes Harry the truth, he knows that much.

Taking a deep breath, he turns his face to their ruined living room downstairs. “Since our second year here,” he answers.

The house, which had been so full of reckless noise is suddenly, devastatingly silent.

Then, “We’ve been here almost twelve.” Harry’s voice is barely audible, even in the dead of night.

“I know,” Draco says, his own voice very, very soft.

“So, you’ve been lying to me for a decade.”

And Harry is no longer looking menacing or angry. He looks resolutely heartbroken.

He feels as though he is going to be sick at the sight. “I’m sorry,” he says, and his own voice breaks.

“You’re sorry?” Harry parrots, letting out a joyless laugh. “You’re _sorry_.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Everyone has a fucking choice.”

“I was nearly blackmailed into taking this job,” Draco starts, no longer able to contain himself. “‘It’s this or Azkaban’ they said. So I took the job.

“A couple years go by. I become good at this spy thing. The spy thing becomes easier with time. And then, one summer night, my handler comes to me with a secret mission I’m supposed to keep even from my partner.

“You see, my partner wouldn’t approve of straight up murder, but it’s for the greater good, my handler says. It’s for the _cause_. I say no. So, my handler smiles thinly, an ugly smirk like nothing I’ve ever seen on her before. This time, it’s not ‘Azkaban or this job’, it’s someone else’s life or this job.”

“Whose life?”

“Does it matter?”

“I…” Harry starts before stopping himself. “You should’ve told me.”

Draco shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re quite grasping their reach.” He looks up at the ceiling, remembering Claudia and her threats. Each worse than the one that came before. “Haven’t you noticed how they keep sending you on more and more dangerous missions?”

“What does that have to—”

“We haven’t been home, our real home, in a very long time. And things… they aren’t exactly the same.” He turns to Harry. “You are not exactly regarded the same way.”

“So, not only have you kept from me, for ten years, the fact that our government is perfectly fine with cold-blooded murder, you’ve also forgotten to mention that things aren’t the same back home,” Harry says, and the way he stares at Draco, it’s like he’s seeing him for the first time in years. “Who are you?”

It hurts. It hurts that he’s tried so hard only to end up here, right where he never wanted to be. “Really,” he replies, a knot rising in his throat, “you ask me that, after all these years?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “Who in the bloody hell are you?”

He swallows, the knot tight against his vocal chords. “I’m the person trying to protect you, you ungrateful git,” he replies, his voice breaking. “You and your bloody soul.”

“Oh, _please_.”

It’s about as much as he can handle. Because yes, he tried very hard to hide the truth. But the truth was right in front of Harry’s eyes for ten long years.

“We’re spies, Harry,” he says. “We’re bloody well-trained spies. Murder is basically in our job description. And yet, tell me, how many people have you killed?”

Harry staggers back at his words. “We aren’t… We—”

“You found out our government isn’t what it seems,” Draco continues. “But did you really believe we’re only here for information? And you still haven’t answered my first question.”

“None,” Harry answers, voice hoarse.

“They chose me to do their dirty work. Precious Harry Potter couldn’t possibly be compromised. But I could be.” And how he’d resented that, at first. “And then you became a liability. That’s the tough thing about spies: they tend to be rather good at figuring stuff out.”

There’s a pause where the eerie silence descends upon the room all over again, their breathing the only sound.

“It was me,” Harry says, breaking the silence. “It was my life or this job, wasn’t it?”

Draco knows it was only a matter of time before Harry worked it out. So, he nods, feeling a little sick despite all the time that’s passed. Despite the fact that this, more than anything else, was his choice.

“After the war,” he starts, “I went into the headmaster’s office. You’d said something about Professor Snape that I couldn’t—it didn’t make any sense. And I saw the Pensieve and Professor Snape’s face swimming in it.”

“You saw the memories he gave me.”

“Yes. I never understood what he did on our sixth year until then.” He stops, remembering Severus Snape and how much he’d hated him. How much he’d regretted his petty hate after the Pensieve. How much he’d wished things could’ve been different. Then, “He saved my soul. But I didn’t understand what that meant, not really. Not until…” Draco stops himself, unable to get the words out. “Well, that was years ago.”

“So what,” Harry starts, the disbelief in his voice hitting like a bucket of ice-cold water. “All these years you were lying to save my soul?” he asks sarcastically. “You really expect me to believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter whether you believe me or not.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

The gulp in his throat that has been threatening to rob him of his breath all night suddenly rises into his mouth. It’s all Draco can do to fight back the wetness welling in the corners of his eyes. It’s a moment before he can turn to Harry and say, voice breaking, “You’re an idiot, if you really have to ask me that.”

Harry has had nothing for him tonight other than glares and accusations, but at this, he furrows his brow in confusion. “You never said… You’ve avoided me, every time.”

“Except once,” Draco says, smiling despite himself.

He knows Harry knows what he’s talking about when he sees his own smile mirrored in his face. “Once,” he concedes. “And every other time?”

“It hurts,” he confesses. “Being with you like that, it’s a pain like I’d never felt before.”

“You should’ve told me,” Harry insists stubbornly. “You should’ve trusted me.”

“Have you ever,” Draco whispers, swallowing hard. “Have you ever loved someone so much you’d do anything to keep them out of harm’s way?”

“You—”

“There was never a choice for me,” he says. And these are the things he’s been hiding for over ten years. The things he’s been terrified of for so long. He has to close his eyes to get the next words out, “Not where you were concerned.”

Harry takes three long steps towards him. Crouching, he tilts Draco’s chin, forcing him to look up. “You’re an idiot,” he says.

Then they’re kissing like it’s the world’s end, and it might as well be. As their hands search for each other’s skin, blood rushes in his ears, the entire world fading away.

“I love you,” Harry says, and Draco’s heart nearly breaks with how undeserving he is. “Look at me.” He opens his eyes to meet Harry’s. They’re blazing green and orange in the morning twilight when he says, “It’s time to go back home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/132086.html).


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